A Rose for the Assassin
by EmyPink
Summary: AU! Timothy McGee is Thom E. Gemcity, a high profile writer of crime fiction. Ziva David is a high profile assassin, codename Shadow. Common sense predicted they’d never meet . . . fate had other ideas.
1. Prologue: The Shadow and the Writer

**A Rose for the Assassin **

By EmyPink

**Disclaimer:** All names and trademarks recognised as "NCIS" do not belong to me; I've just borrowed the characters.

**Rating:** T

**Parings:** McGiva

**Characters:** McGee, Ziva, Abby

**Genres:** AU! Drama, Het, Tragedy

**Warnings:** Alternate Universe

**Summary: **AU!Timothy McGee is Thom E. Gemcity, a high profile writer of crime fiction. Ziva David is a high profile assassin, codename Shadow. Common sense predicted they'd never meet . . . fate had other ideas.

**A/N** Written as part of NFA's 2009 White Elephant Exchange for calalily06.

---

**Prologue: **_The Shadow and the Writer_

_Agent Tibbs pulled his gun slowly from his holster. He motioned to Agent Tommy, signalling him to take the right. Slowly, and with all the stealthiness of a tiger hunting his prey, Tibbs inched forward. One foot after the other, Tibbs stepped down the hallway, unable to hear a sound. Creeping up to the door of apartment 2B, he swung open the door with such ferocity that . . ._

"Timothy!" a female voice called as a fist pounded on the door of his hotel room. "Are you writing again? You have to be downstairs in five minutes!"

Lyndi, his publisher, burst into the room with a harried look on her face. She stood in the doorway, hands on her hips, and glared at Tim.

Timothy McGee looked up from his typewriter and shrugged. "Just getting some work done."

"Well, stop doing work and get ready!" Lyndi shrieked. "The guests are arriving and you are not wearing that!"

Tim looked down at his sweatpants and MIT sweatshirt, and sighed. As much as he loved writing, he wasn't fond of these fancy book launches Lyndi insisted he had.

"_You are our star, after all," Lyndi had said one day. "And stars need star power."_

Lyndi, meanwhile, had stormed over to the large wardrobe and had pulled out a black suit. Stomping over the Tim at the desk, she thrust the outfit into his hands, gave him another glare and dashed out of the room, muttering about something to do with the catering.

Tim chucked the suit onto the queen-sized bed and stood up. He glanced longingly at his typewriter, but stepped over to the bed. As much as he hated them, Tim knew he had a duty to his publishing house, as well as his sponsors and friends.

He picked up the suit trousers and slid out of his sweatpants. The suit was, obviously, brand new and selected by some stylist Lyndi had picked out for him. Tim shucked off his sweatshirt and reached for the light green dress shirt that the stylist assured him would look lovely with his eyes. He completed the look with a dark green tie and the suit jacket.

Tim glanced in the mirror as he picked up his cell phone and room card. He had to admit that the stylist had been spot on with her choices: he did look good. He walked past the mirror, flicked the light switch and closed the door with a click. Taking a deep breath, he plastered a smile on his face and stepped down the hallway.

---

Across town, a woman with blonde hair gracefully whisked a glass of champagne off the waiter's tray as he passed. With a dignified twirl, she turned back to the conversation at hand. With her glass in one hand, she gently caressed the shoulder of the man to her right, giggling at the unfunny joke he'd just told his clients.

Joel Hardy leaned over and kissed her on the cheek. "Have I introduced you to Ariel, my gorgeous date for tonight?"

Ariel smiled politely as she shook the two other men's hands. "I am delight to meet you," she said in her upper-class British accent.

"Ariel's involved in advertising," Joel continued, sliding his hand down her back.

"Really?" one of the men asked and Ariel nodded, her sky blue eyes shimmering in the bright light of the ballroom.

"Absolutely," Ariel replied enthusiastically. "That most recent Commodore commercial . . ." She pointed to herself and smiled.

"That was you?" the other man asked.

Ariel gave a slight nod. "I was terribly pleased with the way it turned out. It is one of my better works."

One of the men looked at his partner and said, "If you're ever up for some work, we're about to launch a new company, as you know. Headed by Joel here, of course."

Ariel giggled. "Of course. I cannot get him to shut up about it. He even mutters about it after . . . you know . . ." She smiled flirtatiously.

"Stop flirting with my clients, dear," Joel said in a mock serious tone as he squeezed her behind and nuzzled at her neck. "We wouldn't want them getting the wrong idea."

"Absolutely not." Delicately and with more grace than most women, Ariel extracted herself from Joel's grip and pulled away.

"Would any of you gentlemen care for some refreshments?" she asked, gesturing in the direction of the buffet table. "I was just about to go there myself."

Joel's clients shook their heads, but Joel replied, "I'll have one of those triangle thingies, if you don't mind."

"One feta and spinach triangle coming up," Ariel announced and then whispered in his ear, "Don't go anywhere."

Joel grinned lewdly as Ariel glided off in the direction of the refreshment table. As she left, she heard one of the men comment, "Where on earth did you score that one. She's a . . ."

Murmuring an "excuse me", Ariel walked straight past the refreshment table and over to one of the side doors, used by the staff and by people looking for the bathroom. With an inconspicuous glance around her, Ariel slipped through the door and walked silently up the hallway. She smiled a pair of elderly women as they passed and instead of entering the female toilets, she looked around before pushing open the door marked "gentlemen".

Stepping inside, Ariel was relieved to find it empty save one person. There was a cough and Ariel spun around. She projected an image being startled and said, gasping, "You scared me."

A balding man stepped out from the shadows, moving past the out-of-order toilet cubicle. He was a lot less attractive than Joel, but Ariel grinned seductively.

"I apologise, my dear."

"Mr York," Ariel replied in a low and husky voice. "You came."

"Could I ever not?" Mr York leaned in and captured Ariel's lips.

She kissed back passionately, slipping her hand up her thigh. She grasped the cool, hard grip of the gun and slid it out smoothly, hiding it behind her back.

Ariel pulled away from Mr York and said, batting her eyelashes, "And that was just for starters."

Mr York pulled at his tie and while he was distracted, Ariel whipped out the gun from behind her back and fired three rapid, silenced shots. Mr York didn't even have time to blink as he was shot twice in the chest and once smack bang in the middle of the forehead.

Ariel smiled grimly as she pulled the silencer off the gun. Clutching the pieces of the gun, Ariel crouched down in front of the out-of-order stall and pulled off the metal clip holding the doors together. She ripped off the out-of-order sign and stepped into the stall, locking it behind her.

Lifting up the seat of the toilet, Ariel pulled out a plastic bag, wincing at the toilet water on it. She opened the bag and pulled out a backpack. Quickly, quietly and efficiently, Ariel placed the gun and ripped sign in the backpack before slipping out of her slinky purple dress and pulling on a pair of jeans and a pink shirt.

Shaking her head, Ariel's blonde hair slipped off and she stuffed that into the backpack too. Leaving her eye contacts in, Ariel released her naturally dark brown hair from its bun and allowed it to dangle around her neck. She flushed the plastic bag down the toilet, slipped on a pair of pink ballet flats and unlocked the door.

Ariel paid no attention to the dead man on the floor as she checked that the hallway was clear before plastering a sweet smile on her face and stepping into the hallway, letting the door swing shut behind her. Instead of going back to the party, she walked to the end of the hall and pushed open the double doors marked "staff only".

She swung the backpack onto her shoulder, stepped into the kitchen and smiled sweetly at the nearest worker.

"I forgot my backpack," she said in a typical American accent. Ariel gestured to her backpack.

The worker laughed. "Chloe, you'd forget your head if it wasn't screwed on."

"Then lucky it is," Ariel now Chloe laughed.

The head cook looked up from her work and grinned at the sight of Chloe. "I thought you had a date tonight, dearie?"

Chloe screwed up her nose as she clasped the worker on the shoulder and walked past him. "I did . . . until I rushed out of the diner after remembering that I'd left my backpack at work."

The cook smiled sympathetically. "Aw, that's too bad, sweetie."

Chloe shrugged. "Such is life. Anyways, I'd better get going. I have the early shift tomorrow."

The worker who had greeted Chloe stuck out his tongue. "Joy for you."

"It's money, so I'm not complaining," Chloe replied as she walked to the end of the kitchen and pushed open the service door that led to the staff car park. "I'll see you guys tomorrow."

"Night, Chloe," the cook called as Chloe stepped into the cool night air.

Chloe walked over to the beat-up red Ford and manually unlocked the doors. She stuffed the backpack under the passenger seat before walking around to the driver's door and hopping in. She turned the ignition, started up the refitted CD player and reversed.

As someone screamed inside the hotel, Ziva David drove away.

---

Back at the book launch for Thom E. Gemcity's latest L.J Tibbs novel, Tim paused suddenly and shivered as though someone had walked over his grave. Shaking his head and putting the shiver down to the cold weather, Tim turned back to his companions.


	2. Chapter One: One Shot, One Kill?

**Chapter One: **_One Shot . . . One Kill?_

"Why did Lyndi insist on having a press conference?" Tim grumbled as he adjusted the shirt he was wearing. He was currently sitting in one of the plush meeting rooms of his publishing house.

His best friend, Abby Sciuto, shrugged sarcastically. "Perhaps it's because 'Friendly Fire' is walking off the shelves. It's your fastest selling one yet."

"Only because Rock Hollow became popular," Tim muttered as he smoothed out his tie. He stood and looked into one of the wall mirrors. He frowned.

"What's up with you?" Abby asked. "You sound as though you got up on the wrong side of the bed."

Tim sighed and said quietly, "I haven't slept that well since the book launch."

Abby looked sympathetic. "Well, it's not like it's the first time."

Tim threw his hands up in frustration. "But it's not like last time. Last time I was stressing over my writing. This . . . this is different."

"Different how?"

"I don't know," Tim snapped, but upon seeing Abby's look of hurt, apologised. "Sorry, I didn't mean to snap. I'm just tired."

Abby walked over to where Tim was standing and motioned for him to sit down. With a heavy sigh, Tim sat and Abby started to massage his shoulders.

"You need to stop worrying," Abby said gently. "Everything will be fine. You'll get through the book launch and then I'll take you out."

Tim groaned in good nature. "Not to that club you like."

Abby laughed. "No, silly. It's the middle of the day. What about that little coffee shop you like so much?"

Tim gave Abby a small smile and nodded. "Sure, sounds great."

"Don't sound so enthusiastic," Abby harrumphed. "I'll even throw in a danish _if_ you promise to be your absolute charming self."

Tim screwed up his face and sighed. "Only because it's you."

"Only because of the danish," Abby amended, grinning. She made her way over to the door. "Come on you. Time to dazzle the crowd."

---

"Okay, okay," Sarah the media officer announced to the gathering crowd of reporters and general public. "Mr Gemcity will make a brief statement and then he'll be available to answer any of your questions."

Tim, Sarah and Lyndi were standing in front of the downtown DC publishing house. Abby was in foyer, along with another couple of workers and a few security guards. There were two more security guards standing either side of the party outside.

Tim smiled and stepped forward to the microphone. He really did hate all this fame and publicity. He was a writer, not a show pony celebrity. Sometimes Tim wondered why he even bothered.

"Firstly, I want to thank you all for coming," Tim started. "Your continual support means a lot to me. L.J. Tibbs is a man supported by a wonderful team of dedicated agents. Sometimes I feel as though _I_ _am L.J_. Tibbs and you are my team of support."

Mentally, Tim was rolling his eyes. He had prepared his own statement, an honest and from the heart one, but Lyndi, Sarah and a small army of speechwriters had "edited" it for him. Tim ended up with something that was nothing like his original one at all.

"Writing _The Continuing Adventures of L.J. Tibbs_ is a pleasure, not a chore," Tim continued (at least they had gotten that bit right), "and I am so privileged to be able to share my creation with you. I wouldn't have been able to have done without, of course, the help of my publisher Lyndi Crawshaw and Reilly Press."

'There's the token "let's publicise both the publisher and publishing house,"' Tim thought.

"I hope that you will continue to support L.J. Tibbs and his team of dedicated agents in my next book that will be available next fall," Tim finished with a flourish.

He nodded as there was a smattering of applause. Nudging Tim to the side, Sarah stepped up to the microphone and announced, "Mr Gemcity will now take some of your questions. Please, only one at a time and we will endeavour to get through as many as we can. Who's first?"

All the reporters started to talk at once, and it wasn't until Sarah pointed to a young woman that Tim heard his first question.

"Is it true that you based L.J. Tibbs on a real person?" she asked.

Tim shook his head. "L.J. Tibbs is very much my own creation, though I have done plenty of research. Besides, it's not like I'm going to find a NCIS agent on my doorstep, is it?"

The crowd laughed as Sarah pointed to an older man who asked, "What has been your greatest achievement with L.J. Tibbs?"

Tim thought for a moment. "Getting 'Deep Six', my first novel, published was probably my biggest achievement. I've wanted to be a writer ever since I was a little kid, and getting my book published was like a dream come true."

Sarah gestured to another man. "Do you think you'll ever write anything besides _The Continuing Adventures of L.J. Tibbs_?" he asked.

"Well . . ." Tim paused, staring off into the distance. He blinked twice and shook his head. "I'm concentrating on L.J Tibbs at the moment, but who knows; there might be –"

Tim was cut off abruptly as the glass door next to him shattered with a bang. Someone, maybe a reporter, screamed and all hell broke loose.

---

_Two minutes earlier . . ._

She had found the perfect building. It didn't happen every time, but with Ziva it happened more often than not.

Quickly, quietly and dressed in black pants and cream jacket, Ziva had entered the abandoned building and had made her way to the rooftop. Efficiently, she pulled bits of a rifle out of the professional shoulder bag she had swung around her body.

She assembled the pieces quickly, removed her expensive cream jacket and lay flat on her stomach. She lined up the barrel of the rifle and looked through the scope. Perfectly in the middle, she could see a young man wearing a shirt and looking completely uncomfortable.

Ziva reached into the pocket of her pants and pulled out a folded photo. It was a surveillance photograph of the young man in her scope accompanied by a female with an electric taste in clothing. A girlfriend, perhaps?

She glanced down at the photo: Thom E Gemcity aka Timothy McGee. She knew he was a high-profile author, though she hadn't read any of his books, but honestly, she really didn't understand why her client wanted a seemingly mild-mannered author dead.

But it was not her place to understand the intentions of others. She was here to do a job, get paid and move on. She tested the wind speed and position, taking into consideration the effect it would have on bullet's path.

Curiously, Ziva watched the young man through the scope. Although she couldn't hear what he was saying, Ziva was skilled enough in the art of lip reading to know roughly what he was saying. She could tell that the crowd reacted well to him, even if she could see that he wanted to be anywhere but on that stage.

'I know the feeling,' she said to herself.

Abnormally, she was feeling slightly guilty as she aimed the rifle at the exact location that would, coupled with the wind trajectory, end Timothy McGee's life. Usually she was fine, a target was a target, whoever they were. But there was something different about Timothy that Ziva couldn't quite put her finger on.

Perhaps it was the fact that the people who usually hired her were criminals out to get other criminals or people out to assassinate politicians and corrupt businessmen (whom Ziva didn't hold in very high regard) or occasionally, some of the more lenient security agencies would employ her services. Rarely did she ever get the men wanting a hit on their wife or girlfriend or someone wanting their parent's money. She was simply way out of their price range.

She was the best.

But a target was a target no matter who it was. Pushing Timothy's slightly baby-faced face from her mind, Ziva aimed her rifle and pulled back the trigger. She could see Timothy talking, but then he paused.

What happened next, Ziva never did quite understand. Time stopped and through some eerie coincidence his eyes, though nearly impossible, seemed to lock on to her's. Her finger wavered on the trigger as the moment when she would have fired passed. Timothy continued to look out into the distance, as though he knew something was there, but didn't quite know what.

Ziva, through no conscious thought, gazed back at him, taking in his wide green eyes. There was something about them that made her stop and falter. For a moment, she found it hard to breathe. And this, this was enough to make her lose concentration for a split second. Without evening noticing, the rifle moved a couple of millimetres to the right.

Then Timothy blinked, shook his head and returned to his speech as though the moment had never taken place. Taking a couple of seconds to react, Ziva fired.

She missed.

Reeling from the missed shot, Ziva saw the crowd descend into frenzy. Timothy was rushed inside by two burly security guards who had drawn their guns at the gunshot. She could hear sirens in the distance and she knew it was only a matter of minutes until the cops arrived.

How the hell had she missed?

Angry with herself, Ziva sat up, let her gun clatter to the ground and let out a frustrated growl. Ziva David did not miss. She was the best and she liked it that way.

Knowing that the cops were on their way and her chances of getting her target had been shot to hell, Ziva picked up the weapon, dismantled it and shoved it into her shoulder bag. She stood, angrily shrugging on her cream coat. Finally, she leant over and picked up the wasted shell casing.

Stepping lightly, though she felt like stomping, Ziva made her way back across the roof, down the stairs and out the front. As she casually walked away from the building, it was as though she'd never been there.

She wasn't called the Shadow for nothing.


	3. Chapter Two: Shaken, Not Stirred

**Chapter Two:** _Shaken, Not Stirred_

_Two days later . . ._

"I'll have another of the same," Tim said, gesturing clumsily to the empty glass on the bar.

The bartender looked at him warily as she wiped down a glass. "Are you sure, sir?"

Tim nodded. "Absolutely. Hit me."

Sighing, the bartender put down the glass she was holding and poured Tim another drink. He reached for it and downed it, causing the bartender to shake her head.

"Maybe you want to slow down there," she suggested, putting a hand on her hip and flipping the tea-towel over her shoulder.

"Why bother?" Tim muttered. He was glad that his words weren't slurred. He wasn't drunk, after all . . . just a little tipsy. And after all, after the week he's been having, he totally deserved it.

"Something on your mind?" she asked.

"Something like that."

"Wanna talk about it?" she asked.

Tim shook his head. "Not really."

The bartender shrugged. "Okay then." She made a move to walk away.

"Wait," Tim called and the bartender turned around. "It's, uh, complicated."

She walked back over to Tim and leaned across the bar top. "It's a woman, huh," she said knowingly.

Tim shook his head. "Someone tried to assassinate me," he said in a flat voice.

The bartender looked shocked. "Seriously?"

"Seriously," Tim nodded.

The bartender studied Tim's face closely. "Hang on . . ." Her face lit up in recognition.

"I thought you seemed familiar!" she exclaimed. "You're Thom E. Gemcity! Someone took a shot at you at that press conference."

"That's me," Tim sighed dejectedly.

"Well, you're alive, aren't you," the bartender said, trying to sound cheerful.

"I guess," Tim grumbled. "But have they haven't caught anyone yet so I'm stuck with men in black over there." He pointed to two men in suits and earpieces.

"Are they . . ."

"Protection detail, from the FBI." Tim shot them a look. "Agents Gibbs and DiNozzo. I swear Lyndi got them assigned to me so I wouldn't leave the apartment. Gibbs does nothing but drink black coffee and DiNozzo incessantly compares his protection assignment to every bodyguard movie ever produced."

"Sounds rough," the bartender said sympathetically.

"That's an understatement. I've been trailed for nearly forty-eight hours and I am already ready to hand myself over to the assassin," Tim replied.

"It can't be that bad."

"You'd be surprised," Tim sighed. "Could you pour me another?"

"I think you've had enough," she said firmly. "You should go home before your goons over there have to carry you home."

Tim paused. "That might be a good idea."

The bartender patted his hand and smiled sympathetically. "I'm sure they'll catch the guy soon."

"I hope so," Tim agreed and stood up. "I . . ."

"Leaving so soon?" an elegant voice cut off his attempts to leave.

Turning to his right, Tim saw one of the most beautiful women he'd ever seen in his life. Her curly dark brown hair cascaded down her back. Her brown eyes sparkled as she smiled charmingly, gliding over in a dark blue cocktail dress. If she seemed over dressed, Tim didn't notice.

She slipped onto the bar stool next to Tim and daintily placed her clutch on the counter. It was, obviously, dark blue to match her dress. She gave the bartender an award-winning smile.

"Another for the gentleman," she ordered, saying it in a way that sounded like a suggestion, rather than an order.

Tim raised his hands and blushed. "Oh, no. No. I was about to leave."

The woman shook her head. "Why? The night is young; the stars are shining. It is a beautiful night."

"And that's why we're sitting in a bar," Tim snapped, sounding more snippy than he intended. The newcomer didn't even seem fazed by his tone.

Instead, she tossed her hair over her shoulder and said, "May I request a strawberry daiquiri? And for the gentleman . . .?"

The bartender shot Tim a warning look, so he answered reluctantly, "I'll have a lemon, line and bitters. Thanks." Now that he thought about it, he did want to go home, and not be stuck here with the bartender and the woman that made his heart beat faster.

He could feel a headache coming on.

The bartender nodded, satisfied. "One strawberry daiquiri and one lemon, line and bitters coming right up."

The woman nodded her thanks and turned to Tim. "I am Danielle. You are?"

"Timothy," he replied, colouring slightly.

Danielle smiled. "Timothy. What a lovely name."

"I like it enough," Tim shrugged. "It's a good a name as any."

"Well, I like it," Danielle declared. "And what are you doing here, Timothy, all on your own?"

"Trying to solve the meaning of life," Tim said casually and Danielle wasn't even fazed by the sarcasm.

"Many men have tried and none have found the answer," Danielle replied softly. "Perhaps when you do, you could tell me."

"That implies I'm going to see you again."

Danielle shrugged coyly and smiled flirtatious. "Maybe we will."

"Yeah . . . maybe," Tim echoed. There was something about Danielle Tim couldn't quite put his finger on. In the back of his mind, he was sure they'd met before. But that was impossible, unless they had met at a book signing. Perhaps that was it.

"So," Danielle cut into his thoughts, "have you discovered it yet?"

"Huh?"

"The meaning of life?"

"Beer, babes and booze," Tim replied immediately, wondering where on earth he'd gotten that sarcastic remark from.

Danielle laughed politely. "That does not sound like you."

"How would you know? You don't even know me."

Danielle shrugged. "Perhaps not, but I could get to know you."

"Is that a line?" Tim asked, blushing. While he wasn't unfortunate looking, he was a geek and girls, women in this case, did not gravitate to boys like him.

"Do you want it to be a line?" Danielle asked, leaning forward so that her face was only inches from his.

He was captivated by her perfume.

Roses.

"Should I want it to be a line?" Tim shot back, shocking himself with his boldness. This was not him. Something, most likely the alcohol, was messing with his mind.

"I do not know," she whispered, trailing her fingertips lightly along his wrist. "How are we to know if we do not let it happen?"

"Ahem. Your drinks," the bartender cut in, giving Danielle a stony look.

As though breaking out of a trance, Tim jerked backwards and nearly tumbled off his stool. Danielle laughed and reached out to steady him.

"I did not know I could send a man to his knees," she joked, blushing prettily.

Tim collected himself, straightened himself up and took a large sip from the glass in front of him. He sighed as Danielle daintily took a tiny sip from her daiquiri. Even a simple action like that was captivating.

Taking another sip of her drink, Danielle asked, "So if you have not discovered the meaning of life, what have you been thinking about?"

Tim shrugged. "This and that."

"This and that?"

"Drowning my sorrows, really," Tim said finally, after a moment's pause.

"A woman?"

Geez, what was with him and women tonight? Tim shook his head. "A threat to my life."

"Really? How awful," she said compassionately, gazing at his face. Tim could feel himself blush again.

"Awful is just one word I'd use to describe it," Tim replied bitterly, picking up his own glass.

Danielle looked at him intently. "What happened? If you do not mind me asking."

"Someone tried to snipe me at a press conference," Tim answered flatly and emotionlessly.

"Why on earth would someone want to assassinate you?" Danielle looked horrified.

"Your guess is as good as mine. Or the FBI's," Tim replied. Then he leaned forward. "Though the agents do have a lead."

Danielle closed the gap between them. It was like the room had shrunk and trapped him and Danielle in their own little world, making it hard to breathe. "Oh?"

Tim knew he shouldn't be talking about his case, but there was something about Danielle that drew him to her.

"Shadow," he said simply.

"A shadow?"

Tim shook his head. "No. The Shadow is the name of the assassin they think tried to kill me. He's apparently the best there is and the FBI are baffled as to how on earth he missed. According to them, he doesn't make mistakes."

"Everyone makes mistakes," Danielle said quietly. "Even the best of us."

"Well, I'm just happy that he did miss," Tim announced, downing the rest of his drink. "Though I don't like having the FBI follow my every move."

"It is always better to be safe than sorry," Danielle said firmly as she signalled the bartender. "Another for my friend."

Tim grimaced at the request. "Are you trying to get me drunk?"

Danielle giggled. It was a soft giggle that reminded him of rolling green meadows and sunshine. "Of course not. And besides, you cannot get drunk on lemon, lime and bitters."

"You have a point," Tim concurred.

"I usually do."

"Are you sure you want another?" the bartender asked.

Tim nodded, distracted. Danielle had taken his hand into her own and was tracing the veins along his palm.

"My mother used to be able to read palms, you know," she said suddenly.

"Was she any good?"

"Very." Danielle looked sad. "She is dead now."

"I'm sorry."

Danielle waved away his apology. "It happened a long time ago."

"Still, it must hurt," Tim commented.

"Yes, I think it does."

"I'm sorry," Tim repeated. There was something about her, maybe her eyes, that made him want to take her home and care for her. It was the eyes, he concluded. His mother always told him the eyes were the entrance to the soul.

"Thank you." Danielle dropped his hand and suddenly looked very tired.

"You okay?" Tim asked, truly concerned.

Danielle flashed him a smile. "I am fine. You needn't worry about me."

It was then the bartender chose to deposit Tim's second lemon, lime and bitters drink in front of him. "Enjoy," she said, and Tim noted that she sounded kinda sour.

Tim took a sip and subconsciously thought it was a little strange that Danielle wasn't even half way through her daiquiri.

"You know, Timothy," Danielle started. "I do not think I have met a man like you before."

Tim spluttered on his drink. "Excuse me?"

Danielle blushed and brushed his cheek. "Most men I know of would have tried something with someone like me by now."

Tim shrugged. "My mother raised a gentleman."

"Your mother should be commended. If only more men were like you."

'A geeky author, you mean,' Tim thought to himself. 'A geeky author someone is trying to murder.'

"Where I come from," Danielle was continuing, "men like you are treasured."

Tim almost felt himself getting sleepy. Danielle's voice was . . . hypnotising? Nah, that was impossible. Wasn't it. And the fact that Danielle was now trailing a hand up and down his back wasn't helping. He'd be lying if he said it wasn't turning him on.

"You and I," she finished in a sultry voice, "could be so good together."

Then she kissed him.

It was like an electric jolt had shocked him. Whatever he had been expecting, it wasn't that. It took him a few moments to react, but then he felt himself responding to her kiss. He moulded his lips around her as she pushed for entry into his mouth.

It was nothing like he'd ever experienced before. Sure he'd had kisses, but this kiss started at his mouth, but rippled down his arms, down his legs to his feet. It was different, surreal and . . . wow. Her tongue brushed against his teeth and he hoped it would never end.

Then, it ended.

She pulled away, breathless and flushed. If he didn't know better, she looked slightly shocked.

"That was . . . that was . . ." Tim was unable to do anything but blush and stuttered.

Danielle, looking as though she was fighting internally with herself, said softly, "I have to go to the bathroom, would you excuse me?"

Tim nodded dumbly. Bathroom?

"Thanks," she whispered and slipped off the stool, clutching her purse. The bartender gave her an odd look.

Looking pained as she said it, Danielle murmured, "Wait for me."

She turned quickly and hurried over to the hall that led to the bathrooms, and Tim wondered for a moment how she even knew where the bathrooms were without asking. The moment Danielle had disappeared out of sight, the bartender cried out,

"I swear she put something in your drink!"

"What?" Tim asked dumbly as Gibbs and DiNozzo dashed over, and snatched the drink from under him.

"I swear she used that kissing trick of her's to distract you and obstruct the agents' view of your drink," the bartender continued.

"DiNozzo," the one called Gibbs yelled, "check the bathroom."

"On it, boss." DiNozzo was off and running.

Gibbs, meanwhile, grabbed Tim's arm and made an attempt to steer him away from the bar. "We are going, now."

"But . . . but . . ." Tim's thoughts were muddled all over the place. Danielle wouldn't have spiked his drink, would she?

"Going. Now," Gibbs ordered as DiNozzo came dashing back from the ladies bathroom.

"She's gone," he panted. "Completely vanished. It's like she wasn't even there."


	4. Chapter Three: A Bit of a Cliché

**Chapter Three: **_A Bit of a Cliché _

_A week later . . ._

Tim trudged tiredly down the hallway of his apartment block. He was, obviously, trailed by Gibbs and DiNozzo. After the second attempt on his life, they'd cranked up security tenfold. Now he had two agents following him like puppies, two cars that followed him when he was on the road, and agents stationed around his apartment and the publishing house. Plus he wasn't allowed to go anywhere unless it had been cleared beforehand.

He was just an author, Tim had thought many times, not the President of the United States.

Still, as Tim turned the key to his apartment, he refused to allow agents to follow him into his apartment. He needed somewhere where he could be alone. That was why he now wore a very fashionable device around his neck. A panic button, they had called it.

Frankly, Tim hated it.

"Night," Tim called sourly to Gibbs and DiNozzo who had so far honoured his request to stay outside.

They nodded back and Tim pushed open his door, calling, "Jethro, I'm home."

He received no bark from his faithful companion.

Tim frowned and called again, "Jethro?"

The dog barked and trotted out of his bedroom. Jethro panted and wagged his tail as he sat down at Tim's feet.

"Good dog," Tim murmured, scratching behind his ears.

"Very," a soft feminine voice said, stepping out of the bedroom.

Tim yelped and stumbled over his feet. His eyes grew wide and he gaped at the intruder, unable to say anything. Jethro barked and scampered back into the bedroom.

"Dog got your tongue?" she smirked as she wandered gracefully into his living room and sat smoothly on his desk chair. She crossed her legs daintily.

"Uh . . . ah . . ."

She smiled gently. "Hello, Timothy."

"I . . . uh . . . you . . . you," Tim stuttered before finding his voice and saying in a strangled whisper, "You tried to kill me."

"Did I?" Danielle looked puzzled.

Tim nodded rapidly. "Twice. Twice. You were behind the shooting, weren't you?"

"Was I?"

"You're trying to kill me," Tim repeated. A growing look of horror appeared on his face.

Danielle shrugged. "Am I? You do not seem to be dead. And wouldn't I have killed you by now, as you walked in the door. That is how it goes in your novels, yes?"

"You're in my apartment," Tim squeaked, backing away slowly. He wondered if he had enough time to alert the FBI guards before the she killed him.

"It is a very nice apartment," she complimented. "Warm, inviting, homely . . ."

She broke off and sighed, taking in Tim's petrified expression. "You do not have to look at me as though I'm going to wish you dead."

"Aren't you?" Tim muttered. "You are trying to kill me, after all."

"As I said," Danielle replied airily, "do you not think I would have done it by now."

Tim cocked his head to the side. She did have a good point. In the short time that he'd been in her presence, she hadn't once tried to shoot or poison him.

"I don't know what to think, actually."

Danielle sighed again and asked, "Do you have anything to drink?"

Tim was taken aback. Drink? What did she expect from him? If she thought he'd sit down with her and have a good ol' chat, she was sorely mistaken.

Despite this, Tim found himself saying, "There's an open bottle of wine in the fridge."

Danielle smiled and for a moment, Tim was captivated by it.

"Excellent. Shall I pour us a glass?"

"A-a glass?" Tim blinked.

Danielle shrugged. "Why not."

Tim moaned and sank to the floor, burying his head in his hands. He was tired and stressed, and practically at his wits-end. This . . . this was too much.

Danielle stepped over to him, looking concerned. She crouched down in front of him and asked, "Are you okay?"

"Why would you care?" Tim muttered, his voice muffled by his hands.

"I do not know," Danielle replied softly. Honestly, she had no idea why she cared.

Tim looked up and Danielle studied his face. It was paler than normal. He had dark circles around his eyes and it looked as though he hadn't slept properly in weeks.

"I think you could do with that glass of wine," she remarked.

Tim moaned again and re-buried his face in his arms. "You're trying to kill me. Why would you care?" he repeated.

Danielle shrugged. "Only one way to find out."

Tim lifted his head again and his eyes flashed dangerously. "If you actually think I would . . ." he trailed off and shook his head.

This was way out of his control and he was starting to get a headache.

"Actually," he restarted, resigned, "scrap that. I could do with a glass."

---

By the time Danielle had come back with two glasses of wine, Tim had stood and sat himself down on his computer chair. Danielle looked around.

"Do you actually have a couch?" she asked.

Tim shook his head. "Nope."

"Where am I supposed to sit," Danielle all but snapped.

Tim shrugged. "This wasn't my idea."

Danielle sighed, sounding exasperated. She handed Tim his glass and chose to remain standing. Awkwardly, they both sipped from their glasses. After Tim had downed half his glass, he looked up at Danielle and spoke.

"You tried to kill me," Tim accused. "Twice."

Danielle sighed. "Back to this again, I see." Danielle rolled her eyes.

"Well, it's true," Tim retorted. "You were hired to kill me."

"So what if I was."

"You haven't done a very good job," Tim goaded. "I'm still here."

He had no idea what he was saying, or why he was saying it. Perhaps it was a combination of the tiredness, the stress, the alcohol and the fact that the man . . . woman . . . trying to kill him was trying to make small talk.

"Perhaps I was not meant to kill you," Danielle replied airily.

Tim gave her a disbelieving look, so she amended, "Okay, maybe I was."

"Then why haven't you?"

"All part of my plan," she replied and even Tim could spot that was an outright lie.

"Well, if you're meant to be this Shadow like the FBI –"

"I am the Shadow," she interjected, sounding defensive.

" – then why haven't you killed me? You never miss, after all."

"Can you just be grateful that I have not killed you," Danielle snapped, looking slightly flustered. "I could kill you now eighteen different ways with a paperclip."

"Then why don't you?"

"I don't know," Danielle exploded quietly. "This is a first for me."

"A first not to kill someone, or a first to actually care?" Tim replied, sounding harsher than he intended.

For a moment, Danielle looked hurt. Then it vanished and the same cool exterior appeared on her face. "The first time that I have missed."

"Missed? As in missed your target."

Danielle shrugged. "I guess."

"So why did you?" Tim asked and then took a sip from his glass.

Danielle frowned. "Do you always ask so many questions?"

"I'm a writer. Asking questions in what I do," Tim replied nonchalantly. "And you haven't answered my question."

"Does it look like I am going to answer your question?" Danielle glanced at him.

Tim shrugged and they sat in silence again, although this time the silence wasn't quite as awkward as before.

"So . . ." Tim started after a minute.

Danielle gave him a look. "You really want to make small talk?"

Tim raised his hands. "Hey, you're the one who wanted to sit down and share a glass of wine like old friends."

"What else was there to do?" Danielle replied.

Tim shrugged and answered sarcastically, "You could have killed me."

"Yes, I suppose I could have."

"So why didn't you?" Tim asked again.

"Why does it always come back to that?" Danielle huffed.

Tim rolled his eyes. "I thought it would be obvious. I'm your hit and you were hired to kill me. Who did hire you, by the way? I've been racking my brains since the shooting and come up with nothing."

"Assassin-client privilege," Danielle replied after a moment. "I never have, nor ever will, revel who has hired me."

"You're loyal, at least," Tim mused. "Did you always want to be an assassin?"

"What is this? Twenty question, or whatever you Americans call it," Danielle muttered.

"You're foreign, then," Tim observed.

"And you just picked that up now. Not as observant as you like to think, Mr Gemcity."

Tim ignored her barb and asked, "What nationality? Something Middle Eastern, I would guess."

"Then you would guess correctly," Danielle replied coyly. Then she added in a soft voice, "No, I did not always want to become an assassin."

"Want to talk about it?" Tim asked, genuinely concerned and interested.

Danielle gave him a 'are you kidding looked'. "Do you really think I would give away my life story to someone who could call in reinforcements at any time?"

She paused suddenly and gazed deeply at Tim's face. Her eyes were dark and sad. Well, at least Tim thought they were. "I'm curious, why haven't you used the panic button or called for those FBI agents?"

"I . . ." Tim was at a loss. Why hadn't he called in his FBI goons?

"I don't know," he said honestly. And he didn't know. There was just something about her that physically stopped him from calling out to Gibbs and DiNozzo who were just outside his door.

"And I do not know why I haven't kill you yet," Danielle added. "So I guess, as you say, we are even."

"Yeah," Tim echoed.

Tim shook his head as if to clear it. "This is bizarre," he commented.

"How so?"

Tim gave her a look. "Wasn't it just days ago you were trying to kill me. And now we're conversing as though none of it happened. Don't you find it weird."

Danielle shrugged. "A little. I find a lot of weird things in my profession."

"Profession," Tim snorted. "Hardly."

Danielle's eyes flashed defensively. "Whatever you may or may not think of me, what I do is my profession. Do you think I go around killing people because I enjoy it?"

"Don't you?"

For the first time that night, Danielle looked as though she might actually kill him. "If you think I enjoy what I do then you have the lowest IQ in the history of man. You actually think I enjoy this?"

"Then why do you do it?"

"I have no choice!" she exploded as there was a rap on the door.

"McGee, everything okay in there?" Gibbs asked from outside the door.

Danielle gave Tim a dangerous look that said, 'I dare you.'

"I'm just, uh, watching a movie," he lied, all the while wondering why on earth he was doing it.

"If you're sure . . ."

"Yep, I'm sure," Tim called back. "Great movie."

"Well, keep it down, okay."

"Will do."

Tim turned to Danielle. "Do not ask me why I did not say something. I don't know. But if you want to remain, keep quiet."

Danielle nodded, slightly stunned.

Tim looked down at his empty glass. He needed another. "Danielle," he started, "do you want another . . ."

He broke off and looked curious. "Danielle is not your real name, is it?"

"What do you think?" Danielle snapped.

"You wanna tell me your real name?" Tim asked. "You know mine, after all. It's only fair."

"Do I look stupid?"

"No." Tim paused. "But you look lonely. It can't be easy living as you do."

"I get by," Danielle murmured.

"Don't you ever think of getting out?" Tim asked quietly. "You know, stop all this killing stuff and settle down."

"There's only two ways out of my profession, Timothy," she replied bitterly. "Death or capture."

Tim did not know how to reply to that, so instead offered meekly, "Would you like some more wine?"

Danielle shook her head. "I should go."

Tim looked amused. "And how do you expect to do that. This place is swarming with feds."

Danielle gave Tim a genuine smile. "I am not called the Shadow for nothing."

"How did you get that name anyway?"

Danielle shrugged and grinned. "How does anyone like me get their name? The media. The CIA. Take your pick."

"So you didn't just decide one day that your alias would be the Shadow?"

"Maybe I did," she replied coyly, and then said, "Close your eyes."

"What?"

"You may be alive, Timothy McGee, but you do not get to see me escape," Danielle said darkly. "I am better than that. Close your eyes and count to fifty."

"This is such a cliché," Tim muttered as he complied.

"They always work, don't they," Danielle replied, sounding faintly amused. "Now start counting."

Tim sighed, mentally rolled his eyes and started, "One . . . two . . . three . . . four . . ."

By the time he reached fifty, Danielle was gone.

All that remained was the lingering scent of roses


	5. Chapter Four: Fate Playing Matchmaker

**Chapter Four: **_Coincidence Is Fate Playing Matchmaker _

_Three days later . . ._

"We should really stop meeting like this."

Tim jumped as a figure sat down next to him on the park bench. His entourage of guards, of course, was not happy with the fact that Tim was sitting in an open space. They'd wanted to surround him with a perimeter, and have Gibbs and DiNozzo accompany him on the bench.

Tim had refused. He was sick to death of being confined to his home or workplace, so he had demanded to be allowed to sit and each lunch in a quiet and secure park: alone (well, alone as someone being trailed by more security than the President could be).

But, obviously, it wasn't as secure as they thought.

Tim turned to his right and had to do a double take. While he recognised the voice (how could he not), Danielle looked nothing like the previous times he'd seen her. This time, she was blonde instead of dark haired, pale instead of olive-skinned and her eyes were blue, not brown. She was wearing a pair of short running pants and a pink tank top.

To anyone walking past (including his guards), it looked as though Tim McGee was chatting to an American jogger, not an international assassin.

"You, uh, um . . . You look different," Tim managed to say after his moment of shock.

Danielle shrugged. "Gotta blend in with the locals," she replied in a thick American accent. "Do I pass?"

"Uh, yeah . . ." Despite everything, Tim was still a man and couldn't help being drawn to the smooth strip of skin underneath her bellybutton, the bit not covered by either the top or the shorts. He marvelled at how someone with rich and exotic skin like Danielle could turn so pale.

'She must be a pro with the make-up,' Tim concluded to himself.

Distantly, Tim could hear Danielle saying something to him, but he couldn't stop his eyes as they swept over her body, taking in the perfectly shaped curves and . . .

"You liked something you see?" Tim jerked back and he could hear the smirk in Danielle's voice.

"What? No?" Tim blushed furiously.

"Pity," Danielle pouted.

"Oh, I mean . . . it's not . . . you are . . ." Tim stuttered, feeling as though he was a boyish teenager on his first date.

"Relax," Danielle laughed. "I'm winding you up."

Tim managed to nod, but feared if he tried to speak, he'd sound like a pubescent teenager.

"Are you always this easy to fluster?" Danielle continued, still smirking.

Tim shook his head, but at Danielle's disbelieving look, changed it to a slow nod. Tim sighed, "I don't usually do this kind of thing well?"

"Oh?" Danielle feigned a look of confusion. "What thing?"

"Girls . . . women," he hastily amended. He gestured to himself. "I'm not exactly Mr Stud here."

Danielle lightly brushed her hand over his shoulder. "One day," she said quietly, "I am sure you will make a woman very happy."

"Maybe," Tim echoed. He paused, shook his head and asked, "What are you doing here?"

Danielle replied curtly, "Jogging."

This time, it was Tim who gave her a disbelieving look.

"I was," Danielle defended.

"And you just happened to choose this particular park," Tim retorted.

Danielle nodded. "Mmhhmm."

"Are you here to kill me again?" Tim sighed. How much longer was this going to continue for?

"What do you think?" Danielle replied coyly.

"I gave up trying to figure you out a long time ago," Tim muttered. And he had. Since the third encounter with Danielle three days ago, he'd called on every bit of armchair psychology he had ever researched in order to make sense of Danielle AKA the Shadow. He'd come up with nothing.

"Long ago? You have known me for less than two weeks," Danielle pointed out.

Tim paused as Danielle's perfume wafted across his nose. Roses. Again. It seemed like that was the only constant with her, the perfume. Then . . .

"It feels like forever," Tim murmured.

And it did.

---

_Two days later . . ._

"Are you stalking me or something?" Tim hissed in a low voice and he leaned over the checkout counter.

Donning a Safeway uniform and auburn hair, Danielle smiled back from behind the counter. "I am working."

Tim groaned and was ready to bang his head against the counter. "How do you know where I am all the time?" he muttered.

Danielle shrugged as she swiped the box of cereal in Tim's basket. She did a double take and commented, "Dinosaurs. Cute. And to answer your question, if I told you, I'd have to kill you."

Tim rolled his eyes. "Aren't you anyway?" Tim said in a low voice so he wouldn't attract the attention of Gibbs and DiNozzo who were trying (and failing) to look subtle by flicking through a magazine or studying a tin of peas.

Why he hadn't told them that, for starters, the Shadow was female and that they'd been barking up the wrong tree the entire time, or that she'd been following him around, was beyond him. Something deep down told him that maybe – just maybe, Tim was enjoying the chase.

Danielle shrugged again. "I'm open to negotiations."

"You're impossible," Tim sighed as he handed over his credit card. "What kind of assassin are you anyway?"

"A good one," Danielle replied simply, handing back his credit card.

"Why should I trust you?" Tim muttered darkly. "This is all part of some mind game, isn't it. Hit me when I'm down and all that.

"Maybe." Danielle shrugged for a third time. "You should know me by now."

"I've met you a grand total of four times," Tim replied, almost sarcastically. "The first time you tried to kill me. The second time you tried to kill me. The third time you messed with my head. The forth you ambushed me in a public park. What am I supposed to think?"

"Trust me."

"That's rich, coming from the assassin," Tim laughed bitterly.

Danielle looked hurt for a moment, but as always, her impassive mask was back on her face in seconds. She forced a fake smile as she said, "Thanks for shopping at Safeway. We hope to see you again soon."

With his mood suddenly soured, Tim stomped out of the supermarket unaware of the lingering scent of roses following him across the parking lot.

---

_Five days later . . ._

"I shouldn't be surprised, should I?" Tim sighed, sounding tired and resigned as Danielle's head poked out from behind a bush of flowers. "All I wanted was a simple bunch of flowers for my mum and I can't even do that right!"

"May I recommend the chrysanthemums?" Danielle supplied helpfully. She was blue-eyed again, but had long, dead straight light brown hair, and was wearing a modest skirt and blouse.

Tim sighed again and shot a look at Gibbs and DiNozzo who were loitering awkwardly outside the florist. Tim guessed going in flower shops wasn't high on their priority lists.

Noticing Tim's glance, Danielle commented casually, "They are not very good, are they. They have not noticed that I have been under their noses for over two weeks."

"I guess you're just good," Tim replied, without really thinking.

"I will take that as a compliment," Danielle answered. "And yes, I am good, aren't I?"

"Not modest at all, are we?" Tim shot back as he shook his head at another bunch of flowers. "I need something special. It's my mum, after all."

"How sweet," Danielle remarked, sounding totally sincere. "Does she have any favourites? I could make you up something?"

"A florist as well as an assassin?" Tim observed. "Interesting combination."

"I am good at a lot of things," Danielle said in a sultry voice. "Floral arrangement is just one of them."

"They offer flower arranging as an elective for Assassination 101, do they?" Tim retorted.

Danielle frowned. "Since when did meek Timothy McGee develop a backbone? And no, my mother taught me actually." She looked faintly sad. "Palm reading was not her only talent."

Any argumentative streak Tim might have had fell away as he realised that Danielle sounded, at this moment, just like a little girl who missed her mum.

"I'm sorry," Tim said softly.

"You have already said that," Danielle pointed out, equally as quiet.

"But I am."

"I know."

They fell into a slightly awkward silence until Tim asked, slightly bravely, "Was it your mum that, you know, made you, uh, want to, um . . ." He blushed and trailed off.

Danielle suddenly became very interested in the long stemmed, red rose in front of her. "That, and my brother. And my sister."

Tim hesitated as he started to ask, "What . . ."

Danielle shook her head and cut him off. "It is a long story. A long, dark story that I would rather forget ever happened."

"You shouldn't bottle things up, you know," Tim counselled automatically.

"And what makes you qualified to make such a suggestion," Danielle snapped. "You're just a writer."

Danielle's remark about him being _just a writer_ hurt, but he hoped that he didn't let it show. Instead, he asked, "What do you recommend for my mum?"

Danielle looked thoughtful. "Chrysanthemums, fennel, yellow poppies, maybe a bit of lavender and roses. Dark pink roses."

Tim, who knew nothing about flower arranging, nodded. "Sounds great," he said honestly.

The mention of roses prompted him to ask boldly, "What's with you and roses?"

"Huh?" Danielle looked up from collecting the various flowers she'd just rattled off.

"Roses," Tim repeated. "Every time I've seen you, you're different. Different hair, different eyes, etcetera. But I've noticed that the only constant is your perfume. Roses." Tim shrugged.

Danielle turned away from Tim and fiddled with a bunch of lavender. She didn't say anything for a long time, and Tim was slightly worried that he'd offended her. Then . . .

"I like roses," Danielle said simply and quietly. "They . . . they remind me of what I can never have."

Somewhere deep inside him, something broke just a little bit. It was, literally, practically heart-wrenching to hear her tone of voice. Tim didn't know how to respond (and wondered if she'd elaborate), so he said nothing.

"They symbolise the movies I would watch as a child, with my older brother and younger sister," she continued quietly. "The Prince Charmings and the happy endings, and all that. I held onto that notion of a happily ever after for a long time?"

"What happened?" Tim breathed. He was captivated by the story.

"My sister died. My brother died," Danielle murmured. "I knew then happily ever afters did not exist."

"Sure they do," Tim tried.

Danielle whirled around and glared at him. "Not for people like me."

Tentatively, Tim reached out and gently brushed his fingertips over the back of her hand. "One day," Tim said firmly, "you'll get your happily ever after."

Danielle smiled sadly and wistfully at him. "It would be nice to believe that."

She turned around and picked up the bouquet of flowers. "Your mother will love these. She is very lucky to have a son like you."

As Danielle rang up the total cost of the bouquet, Tim wandered over to the rose display and plucked the best one he could find.

"I'll take this as well," he said, walking back over to the counter.

Danielle looked up and said, "Okay, I'll add it to bou . . ."

Tim shook his head and pulled out his credit card. Danielle swiped it with a confused look on her face. Taking back the credit card and picking up the bunch of flowers, Tim laid the rose on the counter in front of Danielle.

"It's for you," he said simply. Then, he turned and walked quietly out the door.

Gaping as he walked away, Danielle looked down and saw a perfectly formed, long stemmed red rose.

---

_Two weeks later . . ._

"I'll call you tomorrow Abby, I promise," Tim said cheerfully to Abby who was on the other end of his cell phone. "Yes. The men in black are here. I'm perfectly safe. Yes. Yes. Stop worrying. I'll call you tomorrow . . . Good_bye_."

Tim flipped his phone shut and pulled out the keys to his apartment. They jingled as he twisted them in the lock. Before he stepped inside, he bade goodnight to Gibbs and DiNozzo who acknowledged him with a nod. He pushed open the door, stepped inside and dropped his keys on a bookshelf.

"Jethro," he called.

The dog barked and Tim looked in the direction of the bark. Jethro was happily eating out of his food bowl.

'Hang on,' Tim thought, 'I haven't fed him yet . . .'

Barking, Jethro scampered over to the door of his bedroom and barked louder. Rushing over to his dog, Tim was only slightly surprised to see a silhouette sitting on the edge of his bed.

"Hello, Timothy," came Danielle's voice. She was back to her cascading brown hair and olive skin. "I am taking you were not expecting this."

Tim shrugged though Danielle could not see him. "I don't know what to expect anymore, honestly."

As Jethro ran back to his food, Danielle turned around and smiled softly. "I guess that is about correct."

Tim gaped at her and pointed to her face. "Wh-what . . . what . . ."

Danielle reached up and gingerly brushed the purpled bruise on her left cheek. She shrugged. "A misunderstanding."

"But you're hurt." Tim continued to gape before snapping out of it and dashing over to the bed.

Coming to a halt in front of her, Tim said gently, "Let me see." He reached out to touch her face.

Danielle pulled away and said, faintly amused, "Are you a doctor as well as a writer?"

"If you can be a florist, then I can be a doctor," Tim replied, noting how Danielle stiffened at the mention of the florist. "Seriously, it looks nasty."

"It is fine," Danielle said airily, brushing away Tim's concerns. "I have had worse."

"I bet you have," Tim agreed. "But you are in my house now and it would be very un-gentlemanly of me to let it slide. I'll get some ice."

Praying that she wouldn't disappear while he was fetching the ice, he cautiously listened for any sounds of escape as he retrieved the ice. He didn't hear any. But, he mused, Danielle could easily leave without making a sound, so that idea was kinda pointless.

He was glad to see that, as he walked back into the bedroom, Danielle was still sitting in the spot he'd left her. Walking up to her, Tim wrapped the ice in a tea towel and gently pressed it against her bruised face.

She flinched and he grinned. "I thought you've had worse?"

She tried to glare at him, but failed. "It is cold," she pouted, sounding like a child.

"Stop complaining," Tim chided as he sat down next to her.

"Yes, sir," Danielle replied, slightly sarcastically, though her words sounded a little distorted as the ice was already starting to numb her face.

Tim grinned. "That's better."

They sat in comfortable silence for a little while before Danielle gently grabbed Tim's wrist and pulled it and the ice away from her face.

"I think it is sufficiently numb," she commented. "I bet you could stick a needle in it and I'd not notice."

Tim, though he might not agree, took the ice away from Danielle and dumped it on the bedside table.

"So . . ." Tim started hesitantly after another pause. "Who did that?"

"It does not matter," Danielle replied stiffly.

"It matters to me," Tim said softly.

"Why?" Danielle challenged. "I am here to kill you, after all."

"Well, I haven't seen much evidence of killing," Tim replied, matter-of-fact. "And I care because, for an illogical reason, I like you."

After a moment, he added so softy that Danielle almost didn't pick up on it, "And I care about you."

Louder, Tim concluded, "And you are officially the strangest assassin I've ever met."

Danielle managed to crack a smile. "And you have met many assassins, have you?"

"No," Tim shrugged, "but I have read about them."

"Not the same," Danielle retorted.

"I guess not," Tim conceded. He paused. "Seriously, who did . . ."

"Can you just drop it," Danielle snapped. "Please, just leave it."

"I don't condone violence." Tim reached out and lightly brushed Danielle's bruised face.

"I gathered that." Danielle didn't pull away from his touch. She looked just as entranced as he did.

She reached up and gently wrapped her fingers around his. Bringing them to her mouth, she kissed them lightly.

Then, to only the slight shock of Tim, she leaned in and kissed him.

Unlike that first kiss in the bar those few weeks ago, this one wasn't fuelled by lust and electricity, but passion and longing.

He kissed her back as she moved her hands to his head and threaded them through his hair. His own hands reached up and cupped her face as he deepened the kiss. Even though she was an assassin, Tim thought, she was one hell of a kisser.

Gently, as he nipped at her bottom lip, Tim pushed Danielle onto her back and straddled her waist. His left hand trailed down to the neck of her blouse and popped open the first button, revealing the soft skin beneath.

Somewhere deep down, a voice was telling him that this was a bad idea: a very bad, bad, clichéd idea . . .

He ignored it.

---

The next morning, Tim rolled over lazily and was startled when his arm flopped into empty space. His eyes flew open and he scrambled out of bed. The other side was still unmade, as though someone had been sleeping in it. That was, however, not what had caught Tim's eye.

On the pillow was a perfectly formed, long stemmed red rose and attached to it was a two-worded note written in a feminine and loopy script.

_I'm sorry. _


	6. Chapter Five: A Rose by Any Other Name

**Chapter Five:** _A Rose by Any Other Name . . . _

_Three months later . . ._

"It's Abby. Timmy, open up," Abby ordered as she banged on the door of Tim's apartment. "If you don't, I'll bust it open. You know I can."

There was a heavy sigh, a click and the door swung open. Tim stood in the door, dressed in sweatpants and his favourite MIT sweatshirt. "What do you want?"

"What the hell is going on?" Abby demanded as she pushed past Tim and marched into his apartment. "You barely answer my phone calls. Lyndi's going crazy. And the FBI is ready to pull your security detail."

"Let them."

"What is wrong with you?" Abby exploded. She was tired, frustrated and annoyed. "God, you have one bad experience with a woman and you break into pieces!"

"Who said anything about a woman?" Tim shouted back, defensive.

Abby rolled her eyes and sighed exaggeratedly. "You're a walking cliché, Tim. It's obvious. You never were very subtle."

"Just leave it alone, Abs," Tim snapped and stormed into his bedroom.

"You're my friend," Abby replied stubbornly, following Tim into his bedroom. "I'm not just about to give up."

"Please, just leave it," Tim muttered, leaning heavily against the doorframe. "I'm fine."

Abby shot him a disbelieving look. She put her hands on her hips and exclaimed, "If you're fine, then I'm the tooth fairy."

"Now who's the cliché?"

"No need to get snappy at me," Abby shot back. "I'm just trying to help."

"I don't need help, Abby. There's nothing wrong with me," Tim replied firmly. After a pause, he said, "I'm busy. Could we have this conversation another time?"

"You don't look busy," Abby commented, but shrugged, resigned, when Tim shot her a dangerous look.

"Fine," she huffed. "Lyndi was right. She told me you'd bitten her head off when she called for an update on the next Tibbs novel. I'll leave you in peace, then."

She stomped out of the room with a hurt look on her face. Once upon a time, Tim used to confide everything in her; they had been best friends since they were little, but recently, she was lucky if she could get two words out of him.

Tim noticed the hurt look on Abby's face so called, "Abby. I'm s . . ."

But Abby had already slammed the door behind her.

Tim sighed dejectedly and ran a hand through his hair. He didn't know what was happening to him lately. Ever since . . . No, he pushed that thought out of his head. He'd buried that fateful night in a little corner of his mind and locked it tight.

Or so he liked to believe.

In reality, he couldn't get it out of his mind.

It was the little things that reminded him. A jogger in the park . . . a flash of brown hair . . . the roses in Mrs Silvestry's garden . . . Suddenly he'd find himself transported back to that one, perfect night. He couldn't help it . . . and the way that it had ended . . .

Tim shook his head to snap himself out of it. It happened, big deal, he needed to move on. There was no time to think of the "what ifs" or the "maybes".

Mostly, he was just fooling himself.

He'd been lucky so far. Everyone had kept out of his way, attributing his anti-social and snappish behaviour to the stress of writing his next novel and the fact someone was trying to kill him. Well, they'd gotten the writing part right.

As for the assassination hit, there had been nothing for three months and Tim highly doubted that there would be anymore movement. He had a strong feeling that 'Danielle' would not try again, though a little part of him still insisted it was all part of some elaborate plan. So, really, the assassination attempt was not high on his priority list.

Danielle, on the other hand, was, no matter how much Tim tried to keep her off it. He couldn't help wondering what she was doing; where she was. As he ate his breakfast in the morning, he wondered if she was eating breakfast. At night, he'd wonder where she was sleeping. Even though, in Tim's opinion, she was far, far away, it didn't stop her from invading his dreams and his waking moments.

He wondered if this was what love felt like . . .

---

The next day, Tim woke up bright and early. Danielle, of course, had made frequent appearances in his dreams, though they were fuzzy in his mind. He kicked his legs over the side of his (new) bed and decided quickly that he'd forgo his morning shower in favour of some breakfast and an early morning walk.

He padded into the kitchen in his ratty old t-shirt and boxer shorts (Star Trek, of course). Tim reached up, opened the cupboard and leaned in to pull out a box of cereal. He wasn't looking, so when he looked down to see his choice, he dropped it. In his hand was the dinosaur cereal Danielle had once deemed cute.

Hastily dropping to his knees and scooping up the box, Tim deposited it in the rubbish bin. He had, after that night, cleansed himself of any reminders. The bed had gone and been replaced with a substantially more expensive model (which Tim had to admit was a lot nicer than his old one). The clothes he had been wearing that day had been shuffled off to a goodwill store. The only thing that served as a reminder of that night was the scrawled note tucked away in the corner of this bedside table.

Jethro barked and Tim jumped. He looked over to the dog and said, "Let's get you some breakfast, shall we."

Jethro barked again so Tim reached over and pulled open the cupboard that held Jethro's dog food. He reached for a Tin and as he took it from its place on the shelf, a single scrap of white paper hovered in mid-air for a moment before fluttering to the ground.

Confused, Tim reached down and plucked the paper off the floor. Turning it over, he dropped the can of dog food he was holding. It clattered to the ground, making Jethro yelp. But Tim ignored it and stared seemingly unseeing at the hastily scrawled script.

_Broadmeadow Park – 0900 hours._

_Lose the tail. _

_D._

Tim stumbled backwards and the paper was shaking. It was just another one of his dreams; it had to be. After three months of nothing . . . it was impossible. Completely and utterly impossible. Yet the proof was staring him in the face. It _had_ to be her; there was no other explanation.

No. No. He wasn't going to go, he decided. No. What had happened with Danielle was a one-off. It was in the past and gone. But despite himself, Tim glanced over at his clock which told him it was just before eight. That meant he had an hour to get himself over to the other side of Silver Spring and lose his FBI guard.

Wait. What was he talking about? He wasn't going. He was going to eat breakfast and go for his morning walk. Yes, that's what he was going to do. But the more he thought about it, the more he found himself working out a plan to shake the FBI.

Five minutes after receiving the note, Tim had a plan.

---

"I'm just going to borrow some milk from the Wilkins," Tim told Gibbs and DiNozzo as he walked past the pair of guards.

They nodded as though they looked bored, so Tim knocked on the door two apartments down.

When the door opened, Tim asked cheerfully, "Hey, Jen. Can I come in for a moment?"

After Tim had stepped into Jen's apartment, he asked, "Would it be too much of a hassle if I borrowed your car. Mine's totally dead and I've got an urgent meeting at the publishers today, soon actually. I'll promise I'll bring it straight back after I'm finished and I'll even fill the gas tank on the way home."

Jen shrugged. "Sure. I won't be needing it until his afternoon. You'll have it back before then?"

Tim nodded enthusiastically. "Absolutely. With a full tank, too."

"Okay," Jen agreed with a smile. "But you owe me one, Tim."

"Make that two," Tim amended, slightly sheepish. "Could I also borrow some milk? I've kinda run out."

Jen laughed. "Geez, Tim, it's a surprise you've gotten this far by yourself."

Tim shrugged and grinned as if to say 'what can you do about it'.

"Sure," Jen replied, still laughing. "I'll just get you the keys and the milk. Mind if I pour it into a jug?"

Tim shook his head, so Jen walked off and returned a few moments later with a ceramic jug of milk and the keys to her simple, yet practical car.

"Here you go," she said, handing them to Tim.

Tim took them gratefully and replied, "I owe you one."

"Two actually," Jen laughed and walked Tim to her door.

As she opened it for him, she said, "I hope it goes well. The meeting and all."

"Thanks, so do I." Tim gave Jen a little wave and hurried back to his apartment, satisfied that stage one of his plan was complete.

About two minutes later, Tim exited his apartment again, but this time, he furtively locked it behind him. The keys to Jen's car were in his pocket, though his own car keys were in his hand.

"I'm just going down to my car," he told Gibbs and DiNozzo. "I left something in there that's really important."

"And no," he said as the FBI agents made a move to follow him. "It's just my car." He chuckled. "What could go wrong? Besides, the outside guards can keep tabs on me."

Gibbs and DiNozzo looked at each other for a moment before Gibbs nodded his head.

"Great. I'll be back in a few."

Deciding to take the stairs instead of the lifts, Tim bustled down them and arrived in the car park. He waved to the FBI agents in an unmarked car and said,

"Just getting something out of my car. Won't be a second."

The agents in the car nodded in reply and went back to their conversation.

Instead of going to his car, however, Tim walked casually over to Jen's car and clicked open the doors. Out of sight of the agents, Tim changed his shirt and pulled a baseball cap down over his face. He jumped in the driver's seat, revved the engine and drove out of the car park.

As he drove past the agent guards in the outside car, he glanced at them; they were still wrapped up in their conversation. AndGibbs and DiNozzo weren't anywhere to be seen. Tim smiled secretively to himself; it had actually been easier than he thought.

The FBI thought he was getting something out of the car and by the time they figured that something was going on, he'd already be at Broadmeadow park.

---

He'd been sitting in Broadmeadow Park for ten minutes and there was no sign of her. The park was empty, save for a few birds and a couple of bugs. His FBI goons had not appeared, so Tim assumed they were puzzling over his disappearance. Maybe they thought he'd been taken by the person after him.

They would never guess that he'd gone to meet that very person of his own free will.

Tim felt a little sorry for the agents, especially Gibbs and DiNozzo. They'd probably get hell from their superior about letting their charge disappear. Despite their annoying presence, the FBI agents weren't too bad. It was annoying, sure, but not totally terrible. They . . .

"A nickel for your thoughts?" an amused voice whispered in Tim's ear, making him jump.

"Penny. It's, uh, a penny for your thoughts," Tim stuttered as he awkwardly twisted his body to face the person standing behind the bench.

"Penny. Nickel. Same thing," Danielle said lightly, gesturing with her hands. Then she looked down at Tim and smiled softly, saying gently, "Hello, Timothy."

"Danielle," Tim breathed and for the first time wondered why the name felt so wrong on his tongue.

He stood, turned to face Danielle and snapped, "If you had planned to sleep with me and then just up and leave, it might have been nice to know your _real name_."

Danielle looked slightly shocked at the change in Tim's reaction. "What? Why?" Where was this coming from?

"Why?" Tim laughed bitterly. "I thought that was pretty obvious."

"Isn't it better . . .

"No, it is not better," Tim said firmly. "If you're Danielle, then you're the person sent to kill me. Otherwise, you could be the one I fall in love with."

If Danielle had less self control, chances are her mouth would have dropped open and her legs collapsed. But she was the Shadow, and as such, had learned to control her reactions. But love? That blew her away.

"That is ridiculous," she laughed awkwardly. "Have you been sitting in the sun to . . ."

"Don't patronise me," Tim snapped. "I know what I feel."

"You don't feel anything," Danielle said firmly. "We are just two people that met one day in which one thing led to another."

Tim looked angry. "So that's all it was to you? A one night stand?"

"That is all it can be," Danielle replied in a quiet voice. "That is all it can ever be."

"To whom?" Tim challenged. "To me? To you? 'Cos it sure felt like more than that to me."

"You do not understand!" Danielle exploded.

"Then let me understand!" Tim replied with a tone of voice that matched Danielle's perfectly.

"No."

"No. No . . ." Tim let out a frustrated sigh. If he was a swearing man, this would be the time.

"I did not come to argue with you," Danielle said quietly after their little outburst. "I do not really know why I came, if I am honest."

Tim sighed again, but this time it was deflated and sad. He sat down heavily on the park bench. "Neither do I."

Danielle walked around the bench and sat down next to Tim. For the first time, Tim noticed that she looked nervy and uncomfortable.

"So . . ."

"So . . . so where do we go from here?" Tim finished quietly.

Danielle shrugged. "For once, I do not know. Usually, I have everything planned to the tiny detail. This . . . this is new."

"It's new for me too," Tim remarked. "It's not every day you start to fall in love with an assassin."

Danielle growled, frustrated. "There's that love word again. How can I get it through to you that . . ."

"That you don't have any feelings for me?" Tim finished bitterly.

"I never said that," Danielle snapped. "Stop twisting my words."

"Maybe if you weren't so ambiguous, I wouldn't need to!" Tim exclaimed.

"See. See." Danielle gestured to herself and Tim. "This is why it does not work. We cannot talk without yelling at each other."

"We can work on that," Tim said firmly.

"There will be no need," Danielle replied equally as firm. "There will be no relationship to work on."

"Why not?" Tim challenged.

"Why not?" Danielle looked incredulous. "I could write a whole novel of why nots."

"So? So we can make it work," Tim said confidently.

Danielle stood up from the bench and started to pace. "This is not one of your novels, Timothy. Happily ever afters do not just happen because somebody wants it."

"Why? Anything's possible?"

"And that," Danielle sighed, "is why you are so damn naive. You cannot live in a fantasy world forever; real life is not like that."

"I am an adult," Tim muttered. "I do know the difference between fiction and reality."

Danielle snorted. "Then get it through your mind that there can never be an us."

"Then why did you want to see me!" Tim exploded, paused, and then continued, "You know what? Forget about that. I'm going home."

Tim stood and tried with all his might to storm away from the volatile situation, but found that he couldn't move; it was like something was gluing him to the ground.

"What are you waiting for?" Danielle said stiffly, looking at Tim who hadn't moved.

Tim sat down again and buried his face in his hands. "God, I don't know."

Danielle stopped pacing, sat back down next to Tim and placed a hand on his shoulder. "Please, you have to understand the reasons why this would not work. This was meant to give you some closure, nothing more."

Tim was silent for a moment, then a soft . . .

"I love you."

"No. No. No." Danielle withdrew her hand and stood again, glaring daggers at Tim.

"You cannot love someone you have just met," she spat. "We have known each other for what? A few months? In those few months we have spent less than twenty-four hours together."

"Love," she laughed bitterly, "cannot be formed in a few chance meetings."

"They were hardly chance meetings!" Tim exclaimed. "If I recall correctly, you set them up."

"To kill you!"

"But you didn't!" Tim yelled. "Why is that?"

"I. Don't. Know," Danielle hissed. "I don't know."

"Then maybe we should find out?"

Danielle sighed, frustrated. "We just keep going around in circles. This . . . this was a bad idea. I should go."

Tim stilled. Even though they were at each other throats, Tim was craving the connection between the two.

As Danielle made to leave, he said quietly, "Please, don't go."

She turned around and asked in a heavy voice. "Why?"

"Because I have something for you." Tim fished underneath the bench and pulled out plastic wrapped object. He offered it to Danielle who took it reluctantly.

"Please, don't," she murmured as she tried to look away from the red velvety head of the long stemmed rose.

Tim reached over and took her hand, guiding her back onto the bench. "Danielle," he said, using her false name, "I can give you your happily ever after."

"No, Timothy, you cannot," Danielle replied with a heavy heart, snatching her hand from his grip. "I told you. In my profession, you do not just leave. It will catch up to you; it always will."

"We can change our names. Move overseas. Dye our hair." Tim was grasping at straws. "If we want it enough, we can make it work."

For a single moment, Danielle looked tempted. Very tempted. But then she shook her head sadly. "No."

"Please?" Tim was one step away from begging.

"No," Danielle repeated firmly. "I made my choice long ago to give up any chance of a normal life and I have to live with that."

"I'm giving you a chance to have that normal life," Tim replied.

"It cannot happen."

"But I think I'm in love with you."

"Just stop, okay. Just stop with the roses and the talk of love and everything!" Danielle yelled. "This is crazy. You're crazy."

"Me? I'm the crazy one?" Tim shot back angrily. "I'm not the assassin."

"And I'm not the person who fell in love with the assassin," Danielle yelled back.

She sighed. "See. See. We cannot get in two sentences without yelling. Please, let's just move on, both of us. It's for the best."

"The best for whom?" Tim muttered bitterly.

"Us. The world. Everything."

"I don't agree," Tim replied stubbornly.

"I know," Danielle said quietly. "I know."

They fell into a slightly awkward silence that Danielle broke by saying, "I should go."

She stood and shot Tim a fleeting and longing look. "I should really go."

Tim grabbed her hand. "Please. Stay."

"I can't." Danielle looked heartbroken.

"Then please . . ." Tim looked desperate. "Just tell me your name."

"Does it matter?"

"More than anything."

There was a slight paused and for a moment, Tim wondered if Danielle would actually reveal her name.

Finally she said quietly, "Ziva. My real name is Ziva."

Tim smiled through the tears he didn't even know he was shedding. "Ziva." He paused. "It's nice to meet you, Ziva."

Ziva offered Tim a small smile. "In another time and place, perhaps it could have work."

"Yeah, maybe," Tim echoed before shaking his head, and trying again, "It could work."

He couldn't give up on her – Ziva – he just couldn't.

"I am sorry, Timothy, but this is how it has to be." Ziva gave Tim a sad, longing look and turned, walking back to her car.

"Wait!" Tim cried desperately. There had to be something . . . something that could be salvaged from this beautiful mess.

Ziva ignored Tim's cry and continued walking. It was for the best, she told herself. She'd made her choice long ago and it was her responsibility to live with it.

"Ziva . . . please . . ." Tim was practically begging and this, perhaps, broke Ziva's heart even more than the fact she had to walk away.

In her adult life, she'd never heard someone so devoted to her. That disappeared when her family died.

Tim cried out again, but she didn't stop walking. If she did, she didn't know if she could start again. There was one chance, and one chance only, to give Timothy the life he deserved . . . and that wasn't with her.

She reached her Mini, turned the key in the lock and tried to ignore the tear running down her cheek. Ziva slid into the driver's seat and jammed the key into the ignition. Breaking her own heart as well as Tim's, Ziva reversed and drove smoothly out of the parking space.

As she turned the corner, she never even looked back.

---

Devastated, Tim watched helplessly as Ziva's car and Ziva disappeared for what he knew was the final time. His heart was racing and his mind was in overdrive; he didn't know what to think or when to think it: it was too overwhelming. Then . . .

Something happened. He felt tiny shockwaves pulsate underneath him. Then Tim registered the roar of an explosion.

He stood, completely still, for one deafening moment. Then . . .

He ran.

As he turned the corner, all that remained were the twisted remains of Ziva's Mini Cooper and a blackened rose.


	7. Epilogue: A Rose for the Assassin

**Epilogue:** _A Rose for the Assassin_

_Ten months later . . ._

'_A Rose for the Assassin' by Thom E. Gemcity is a tragic and poetic love story about a young man who falls in love with a female assassin. Told with such clarity and poignancy, 'A Rose for the Assassin' is undoubtedly going to be a hit. While a stark deviation from Gemcity's typical crime story, his newest novel is bound to sent hearts on fire and attract a large female following. Despite doubts that Gemcity's transition into romance would be a failure, 'A Rose for the Assassin' defies all criticism and perhaps Gemcity has as fruitful future in the art of romance novelisation. _

"Tim? Tim? Are you even listening to me?" Abby sounded annoyed and had her hands on her hips.

Tim looked up from the review he was reading. "Sorry. I was distracted."

Abby sighed. "You're always distracted these days. What's going on?"

Tim stood up and brushed Abby aside. "Nothing. It's nothing."

"It's not nothing, Timmy," Abby said, trailing after him as he walked over to the refreshment table. "Talk to me."

"Just leave me alone," Tim muttered, picking up one of the little pasties. He took one bit, then tossed it into the trash and stormed off.

Abby looked affronted. "Hey. That's not like you," she called after him.

Tim stopped, spun around on the spot and glared at her. "Maybe I don't want to be me."

"Talk to me," Abby repeated as she cautiously made her way over to where Tim was standing. "Please?"

"I said go away," Tim murmured and staggered over to one of the couches before collapsing on it. "I'm fine."

"You're not fine and I think you should talk," Abby replied stubbornly.

"No, Abby," Tim snapped, pulling his knees to his chest. "I'll be fine. I'll get over it . . . eventually."

"Get over what?" Abby looked worried.

"Roses."

"Roses? Tim, you're not making any sense to me," Abby said, sounding confused.

"And you think I make sense to myself," he replied softly, so that only he could hear. He shook his head and changed the subject.

"Do you know when Lyndi wants us downstairs?" Tim asked with false cheeriness.

Abby gave him a suspicious look, but shrugged her shoulders. "Soon, I guess. The guests are arriving."

"Just like last time," Tim murmured, remembering his previous book launch over a year ago. "I . . ."

"Hey, this was delivered for you downstairs," one of the assistants called, cutting off any further conversation between Tim and Abby. He was clutching a long, white box.

Lyndi hurried over to the sofa. "Is it safe?"

Tim rolled his eyes. "The threat against me was cleared months ago."

It turned out that a rival crime author had used his royalties to put out a hit on Tim. He was jealous of Thom E. Gemcity's successful career, and the fact that he had gone off his schizophrenia medication hadn't helped the situation. He had been charged with conspiracy to commit murder and was now in a secure mental facility.

"Still." Lyndi looked worried.

"It was cleared downstairs," the assistant reassured. "They scan everything these days. It's safe."

Lyndi nodded. "Then hurry up. You're wanted downstairs pronto."

Tim nodded and took the box from the assistant. He stood, walked over to the table and placed in on top. Abby hurried over.

"Ooh, a secret admirer," Abby said excitedly, bouncing lightly on the balls of her feet.

"I highly doubt it," Tim muttered as he pulled back the lid. "I'm sure . . ."

Tim trailed off and paled. Abby looked at him worriedly and clutched his arm, leaning in to see what was in the box. Tim gave a strangled half sob-half laugh and Abby looked at him weirdly. Looking into the box, she was confused.

Lying in the centre of the box was a perfectly formed, long stemmed red rose.

_Finis _


End file.
